


Cow Stretching Time

by Irmelin



Category: Holy Flying Circus, Monty Python RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irmelin/pseuds/Irmelin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the nicest man in the world isn't always that easy. At least not when certain people insist on being insufferable bastards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cow Stretching Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aramley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/gifts).



(No cows were harmed in the writing of this story.)

* * *

“Are you excited...”

 _We apologise to those of you who have come here to read this story thinking it had anything to do with Monty Python. It is in fact based upon the television film_ Holy Flying Circus _, and has nothing at all to do with Monty Python. ___

“Are you excited...”

 _We apologise for the previous apology._ Holy Flying Circus _is of course based on the story of Monty Python, and therefore you should be perfectly fine reading this. The author has been replaced with an ocelot randomly bashing the keyboard, which could only improve things, and we do not expect any further apologies._

“Are you...” Michael’s wife looked around the kitchen suspiciously. “Is it all right if I start now, do you think?”

“It seems so,” Michael said, sitting at the table. “Give it a try.”

“Are you excited about today, then?” she asked as she poured him a cup of coffee.

“Yes, I am,” he said, cocking his head to the side thoughtfully. “It’ll be great to really start writing again.”

“Do you have anything in mind already?” She sat down opposite him, handing him the morning paper.

“I have a few ideas, yes.”

“About what?”

He frowned. “It’s just vague ideas for now. I didn’t expect some kind of Spanish Inquisition.”

The door was flung open, suddenly, to the sound of trumpets, and after a moment of intense suspense, Cardinal Richelieu strolled into the kitchen, a sardonic smile on his lips.

“Nobody expects the Spanish inquisition,” he drawled, stroking his moustache slowly.

“What?” Michael said, as his wife gasped in horror. “That makes no sense.”

“That’s what’s so unexpected,” Richelieu said, his French accent growing stronger with each word.

“But you have nothing to do with the Spanish Inquisition,” Michael protested.

“I am a man of very many talents.” He bent over the table and took Michael’s wife’s hand in his,  
bringing it up to his lips. “Madame,” he leered, and she blushed and giggled and twirled a strand of her hair around her finger.

“Now, look here,” Michael said, and was about to launch into an explanation of the implausibility of Cardinal Richelieu representing the Spanish Inquisition, courtesy of his Modern History degree, when the kitchen dissolved around him, and he woke up with a gasp.

“Nightmares again?” his wife mumbled, her voice deep and gravelly from sleep. “I’ve told you to stay away from cheese in the evenings.”

* * *

“Are you excited about today, then?” she asked later as they were having breakfast, and turned a page in the paper.

“Yes, I am,” Michael said. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and glanced nervously at the door, wondering if he should expect Oliver Cromwell or Catherine the Great to burst through it.

“And will you be writing with Terry again?”

“I suppose so, yes. It seems to be working, doesn’t it?”

She smiled at him. “That’s good. I like Terry. He’s good for you.”

He rose from the table, brushed the crumbs off his shirt and bent down to kiss her cheek.

“I’m glad you think so. Have a good day, love. I’ll see you tonight.”

As he was leaving the house, there was a knock on the window. She was waving at him. He smiled and waved back, the nightmares from earlier already forgotten. It was going to be a good day.

* * *

“I don’t think we should do this,” was the first thing John said, after hellos were exchanged and they’d all sat down around Eric’s kitchen table.

“Do what?” Eric asked, frowning.

“A second series.”

“But they’re letting us do a second series,” Terry said, in a tone that indicated that should make it obvious, and in Michael’s mind, it pretty much did.

“And they’re paying us more,” Eric pointed out.

“It’ll never be as good as the first,” John said. “We’re bound to repeat ourselves, and rely on old jokes and tried and tested methods to force laughter out of the masses.”

“Isn’t forcing laughter out of the masses kinda what we’re going for?” Terry Gilliam said, after a few seconds of silence.

“No,” John said shorty.

“I kinda think it is,” Terry insisted.

“Well, maybe that’s how you do it in America, but that’s not how it works here in England.”

“Isn’t it?” Graham said, blowing out the match he’d just lit his pipe with. “What were we doing during the first series, then?”

“We were brilliant, and inspired. Young and fresh and exciting! That’ll never work again.”

“You did two series of _The Frost Report_ ,” Terry Jones pointed out, a hint of annoyance in his voice.”

“Exactly,” John said. “And where’s _The Frost Report_ today? Nowhere. Dead and gone. And I’m stuck here with you.”

“Right,” Michael said in the silence that followed. “Well, that’s a cheery way to start things off. Thanks, John.”

John nodded benevolently. “You’re welcome.”

Terry Jones sighed. “All those in favour of actually writing the show we’ve already signed contracts to write, say ‘crunchy frog’.”

“Crunchy frog,” the others chorused.

“Crunchy frog,” John said. “I just wanted to get it on record that this is a phenomenally bad idea, and I’m sure we’ll fail miserably. Except me, of course. And possibly Graham and Eric. We do have our Cambridge education to fall back on. The rest of you will probably end up living on the streets.”

“Okay,” Eric said, grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper and wrote in big letters as he spelled each word out. “John thinks this is a shit idea.” He underlined it twice. “Happy?”

“Perfectly.”

* * *

> Dear Sir or Madam,
> 
> I must strongly object to the light in which you are presenting Mr Cleese in this fictitious tale. I have lived next door to Mr Cleese for 29 years, and I have had nothing but pleasure from him. He is a most wonderful man, and I won’t have a word said against him. “That Mr Cleese is a lovely man,” I’ve said often to my wife, and she’s always smiled quietly to herself. I remember the time he sawed down the lamp post outside our house, and it fell right through our roof. How we laughed! Well, only Mr Cleese laughed at the time, but I have now come to see the humour in the situation. The time he stapled my foot to our front door is also a moment I hold in fond memory. I do not at the moment recall why he found it necessary to staple my foot to the front door, but I’m sure I’d done something to deserve it. Mr Cleese always acts rationally, and he is, as I’ve already pointed out, a most lovely man.
> 
> Yours  
> Admiral Neville Trouserleg (Mrs.)

  


* * *

“Does John have a point?” Michael asked Terry the next day. They were in Terry’s garden, supposedly writing, but spending most of the time swatting flies.

“Almost always,” Terry said, waving a newspaper around his head with very little effect.

“Are we making a mistake, writing a second series?” Michael had been up half the night, wondering about it. Finally his wife had threatened him with bodily harm if he didn’t stop fidgeting, and that had relaxed him enough to go to sleep.

Terry scoffed. “Of course not! We’re paid better this time around.”

“Now you sound like Eric. What if we already did our best work.”

“Mike,” Terry said, looking at him with pity, and quite a bit of affection. “You’re twenty-seven years old. If you’ve already reached your peak, you have a very long, depressing life ahead of you. Me, I’m pretty sure I can do better. And since you’re writing with me, so can you.”

Michael just shrugged, and Terry made an annoyed sound.

“You always listen more to John than to me!”

“No, I don’t,” Michael said mildly. “Do I?”

“Yes!” Terry exclaimed petulantly and brushed a fly off his nose. “Is it because I’m shorter than him? I bet it is. No one listens to short people. You know, I don’t blame Napoleon for going off like he did.”

“Please don’t try to invade Russia, Terry,” Michael said. “I’m very sorry and you’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t listen to John, I just worry too much.”

“You do,” Terry said, appeased. “It comes with being nice, I suppose.”

“Don’t you ever worry about anything?”

“The baggage retrieval system at Heathrow,” Terry said promptly.

“Oh dear,” Michael sympathised. “Still haven’t got your suitcase back?”

“No,” Terry grumbled. “The last I heard it was in Helsinki. Or Aberdeen.”

“Same thing, really,” Michael said. He sighed again, and Terry studied him quietly for a minute or so. Then he nudged his shoulder carefully.

“I’ve got an idea for a sketch that would require John in a bikini,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows. “Would that cheer you up?”

Michael smiled reluctantly. “Yes. Yes it would.”

* * *

“Did everything go well today, darling?” his wife asked him as he slipped under the covers of their bed.

Michael sighed. “I think so. I’m still a bit worried that John isn’t happy with it, though.”

She snorted. “Well, that’s typical of John. And what about Terry?”

“Oh, Terry’s always enthusiastic. We have some great material already.”

“That’s good,” she said, and squeezed his hand. “Stick with Terry and everything will be fine.”

He turned to his side and pulled her closer, nuzzling her neck to feel that familiar scent that always seemed to stay with him during the days.

“You think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” She ran her fingers through his hair gently. “Keep working as long as you have work, that’s what I say. I’m surprised you even got a second series. I didn’t find the first one all that funny.”

“Thank you, love,” Michael said flatly.

“Oh, _you_ were very good,” she said consolingly. “I just prefer things with a bit of a plot.” She patted his head. “Sweet dreams.”

* * *

“Masturbation through the ages?” Michael said, staring at John and Graham in disbelief.

“Fascinating subject!” Graham said, pointing at Michael with his pipe.

“Oh, I don’t disagree with that,” Michael said, “and I for one would certainly welcome a documentary on the matter, but I hardly think they’d let us get away with that.”

“But it’d be so much fun to make them discuss it.”

“Has it actually changed that much, though?” Eric pondered. “Masturbation, through the ages. I mean, it’s highly unlikely they used stones back in the Stone Age, moved on to more shiny materials in the Bronze Age, and used only the finest silks during the Renaissance. It’s pretty much the same thing, just in a different setting.”

“They say practice makes perfect,” Terry Gilliam pointed out, and they all startled, as they always did when Terry Gilliam spoke, since none of them ever remembered he was in the room.  

“Pardon?” John said.

“Practise makes perfect,” Terry repeated.

“What?” John asked, eyes wide with incomprehension.

Graham chewed his pipe thoughtfully. “I think he doesn’t understand American today.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Terry said.

John continued to stare at him evenly. “No, not a word.”

“I doubt the BBC would even let us use the word masturbation,” Terry Jones said, as Terry Gilliam muttered to himself, grabbed a pile of newspaper clippings about Monty Python and a pair of scissors and started cutting John up.

“Well, fuck Auntie Beeb!” John said forcefully, and then rolled his eyes as Eric coughed pointedly.

“Not your Auntie Beeb, of course, Eric. A phenomenally stupid name to give to a person.”

“Yes,” Eric said. “Shame on my grandparents for not foreseeing the creation of the British Broadcasting Corporation when they named my aunt in 1913.”

“Look,” John said, his voice growing louder. “If all we’re going to do is what the BBC wants us to do, we might as well be writing the Archers!”

“John, we would all love it if the BBC would show nothing but masturbation” Michael said. “But it’s not going to happen, and we can’t afford to constantly antagonize them.”

“I say we can!” John rose so quickly his chair fell over. He seemed to grow even taller than usual, and he stared at Michael with narrowed eyes. “And we will!” He laughed manically, and suddenly beams of laser shot from his eyes, setting fire to Michael’s shirt. Michael dove under the table, quickly patting out the fire, and when he stuck his head up again, chaos reigned. John’s eyes had set fire to the curtains and Eric was beating Graham over the head with Graham’s own leg. Terry was climbing up the bookcase to get away from John who was reaching for him with impossibly long arms. In a corner, Terry Gilliam was giggling wildly, most probably illustrating Masturbation Through the Ages, and Michael frankly didn’t want to look over to make sure.

“Look, really,” Michael protested as John caught Terry and prepared to rip his head off with his bare hands. “Do you know how hard it is to get blood stains out of a carpet like this?”

John turned on Michael, his eyes narrowing again. Michael ran as the beams came at him, closer and closer until finally...

“Hang on,” Eric said, and the action came to a screeching halt. “Is this another one of Mike’s fantasy sequences? Because I don’t think the BBC budgeted for lasers on our private time, and I’m certainly not paying for this.”

Michael looked around, a little bit embarrassed, as they all turned to him.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, trying a half smile. “I got a bit carried away.”

Eric looked at him suspiciously.

“For such a nice man, you have a very violent imagination,” he said.

“Right,” Terry Jones said when they’d all settled down again, turning a page in his notepad. “Are we doing our sketch now?”

Everyone groaned, and Graham let his head fall down on the table.

“Are we still working, even after that?” he said, his voice muffled.

“Well, how long is it,” Eric asked, and Terry looked at him in shock.

“That’s a very personal question,” he said primly.

Graham lifted his head a fraction.

“All those in favour of going to the pub instead, say ‘Michael has got lovely buttocks’!”

“Michael has got lovely buttocks,” the others chorused obediently, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“I hate when you do that,” John muttered.

“Are we supposed to know that you’re homosexual, Graham?” Eric asked as the all left the table. “Because you’re not exactly subtle.”

Graham put his arm around Eric’s shoulders and winked at him.

“Well, you can know, Eric. Just don’t tell John, I think he might object.”

* * *

In the pub, John was laughing and joking, seemingly unconcerned about his earlier outburst (even if most of it had been entirely up to Michael’s imagination), which grated on Michael’s nerves. Finally he caught him in a quiet corner of the pub.

“Do you actually want to do this?”

“What?”

“Us. The show. Monty Python!”

John looked around, as if he was waiting for someone to jump out and tell him he was on camera.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t seem like it most of the time.”

“Of course not,” John said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You and Eric are the positive ones. I’m just providing a healthy balance.”

“A healthy balance?” Michael repeated slowly.

“Yes.”

“Could you maybe try and balance things a little less severely,” Michael suggested. “And try to not make the rest of us feel like our lives are spent solely inconveniencing you?”

“Of course!” John said brightly, and gave Michael a pat on the back, so hard that he stumbled forward. “I’ll be sweetness and light and all things bright and beautiful! Just watch me.”

* * *

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” John said incredulously.

“Sorry, John,” Michael said, shrugging. “I just didn’t find it very funny.”

Eric and the two Terrys all nodded their agreement, and John stared at them all as if he wanted to crush them under his thumb.

“It’s one of the best things we’ve ever written!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Graham objected. “We’ve written better.”

“That’s easy for you to say! You barely wrote a word!” John’s voice broke on the last word, and he pointed a finger shaking with anger at Graham. “I’m writing for two! It’s like being pregnant with an illiterate otter!”

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

“The very picture of sweetness and light,” Michael muttered to himself.

“Go talk to him, Michael,” Terry sighed.

Michael looked around the room as he rose from the table.

“Why is it always me?”

“Well, Graham’s the main reason he’s annoyed to start with,” Terry said, and Graham nodded thoughtfully, sucking on his pipe. “He never listens to Terry, I’ll only end up screaming at him, and Eric won’t do it unless we pay him.”

“That’s true,” Eric said, looking up at Michael. “My rates are very reasonable, though.”

“And...” Terry said, and Michael interrupted him grumpily:

“I’m the nicest man in the world.”

>   
> **This is a Public Service Announcement on behalf of the Extraordinarily Nice People (Who Are Still Not As Nice As That Very Nice Man Michael Palin)**
> 
> Do you ever wish that you were a nicer person? That you were the kind of human being who would turn his or her other cheek, while the world around you raged on in unending frustration and anger? The kind of person who made rainbows appear and babies gurgle and kittens materialize from out of thin air?
> 
> Well, don’t! It will lead to nothing good, and you’ll end up trampled and ignored by the rest of the world. Remember Mr P.J. Semaphore, who for three years and sixteen days let everyone else go ahead of him in the lunch queue, which led to him never having lunch at all, and he consequently died of starvation! Take Mrs A. Boxset, who was run over by a bus as she was helping a family of snails across Oxford Street.
> 
> Or just watch the nicest man in the world right now. Watch him trying to reason with his fellow man. Watch in horror as his so-called friend and colleague howls with derisive laughter. Watch him finally give up on kindness and head back inside. That’s what being nice gets you. Nothing! Not even a sausage. You’re much better off being a miserable old bastard.

Michael stomped back into the room, silencing Terry with a glare, and got his wallet from his coat. He emptied it of coins, slammed them down in front of Eric, and went home.  

* * *

Michael pointedly didn’t set the alarm for the next morning. He slept in late, only waking up when his wife gently shook his shoulder.

“John’s here for you,” she said, a note of disapproval in her voice. “Shall I tell him to go away?”

He groaned into his pillow. “No. I suppose I must talk to him.”

He took his time, though, and when he got downstairs he felt a wave of warm affection for his wife when he noticed that she hadn’t let John him, but left him standing outside.

“So,” John said when Michael opened the door. “It should be amusing when we manage to get you angry, but turns out it’s just very disconcerting. The others told me to fix it. Well, fix you.”

“Right,” Michael said. “And how did they manage to convince you to do that?”

John looked up at the sky and sighed. “The American dressed up in armour and hit me with a raw chicken.”

Michael bit back his smile. “I thought we all agreed we’d had enough of the knight in the first series.”

“Terry kept whining something about it being his only part,” John said. “It was all very undignified.” He stood up straighter and looked Michael right in the eye. “So, let’s go play tennis.”

“Tennis?”

“They say it’s good, apparently, physical activity, for getting rid of aggressions.” He moved his arm in a poor imitation of a backhand. “So, let’s get rid of your aggressions!”

* * *

When Michael broke John’s serve for the third time to win the set, John retaliated by breaking Michael’s racket, smashing it against the ground.

“Sorry,” he said, gathering up the pieces. “I’ll buy you a new one.” He held out the pieces, looking sheepish when Michael didn’t take them from him.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” Michael said, “But you might actually be worse at tennis than a blancmange.”

John stuffed the pieces of racket into a bin in silence. Michael watched him for a minute and then sighed.

“Shall we go to the pub instead?” he asked kindly and John nodded morosely..

* * *

“The thing is,” Michael said as they were walking home, somewhat unsteadily, from the pub, “you’re a fairly nice person.”

“No, I’m not,” John said automatically.

“You are,” Michael insisted. “Or at least you were. Lately you’re turning into a reflection of the characters you play.”

John glanced at him, but didn’t say anything, which gave Michael the incentive to continue.

“Do you really want to be remembered as the tall bastard who shouted a lot and walked silly.”

John came to a dead halt and stared at Michael.

“I don’t have a silly walk.”

“You sort of do,” Michael said mildly.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

Michael just nodded, and John sighed deeply.

“I don’t know,” he said tiredly. “It’s just easier sometimes. Being angry.”

“Easier than what?”

“That’s what I don’t know.” He looked at Michael and shrugged. “Being me?”

“But we all love you, John,” Michael said simply.

John blinked. “Yes, well, I...” he reached out and straightened Michael’s scarf awkwardly. “You know.”

Michael smiled. “Yes.”

“We’re not going to hug or anything, are we?”

“Oh, god, no!” Michael said, and started walking again.

John quickly followed him.

“But we’re okay?” he asked nervously. “Because Terry was muttering something about catapulting cows at me.”

“Cows?” Michael said in disbelief and shook his head. “I wonder about him sometimes. And yes, we’re fine.”

“Is that it?” John said. “Isn’t there supposed to be a bright light and choirs of celestial beings singing?”

“I think they save that for when you die,” Michael said.

“Typical celestial beings,” John scoffed. “Cheap, lazy bastards, the lot of them.”

* * *

Michael’s wife was sleeping when he came home, but she stirred as he got in bed.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes,” Michael said slowly. “I really think it is.”

“That’s nice.” She yawned, and wrapped her arms around him, the stubble on her chin scratching his neck. He sighed blissfully and closed his yes.

“Terry,” he said, after a few minutes of silence.

“What, darling?” she mumbled, half asleep.

“Nothing. Good night.” He pulled her arms tighter around his waist, smiled to himself, and went to sleep.

(In his dreams he was chased through the streets of Toulouse by a giant porcupine shouting his name, but that’s another story.)

The End

 

 

No, really, The End. What do you think this is? A DVD? Go away!


End file.
